Strangers
by cLoswin
Summary: To devote your entire life to your own concept of justice at the degree that Sherlock had done was an honourable, yet difficult and rather strange concept to grasp. Could he have read a few too many Victorian detective stories as a child, or was it something more than that? Sherlock is his best friend. And yet there was so much John didn't know...


**New story. I'm kind of excited for this one. Lemme know if you have any thoughts/ideas/etc in the comments please!  
**

**Warning FOR THE non-JOHNLOCK SHIPPERS I might have some hints of non-heterosexualnessosity beware sirs and madams but probably just madams.  
**

"_Sherlock Holmes here, why do you insist on disrupting my evening?"_

John eyes flickered over to the detective clutching his mobile phone. He sat clad in his pale blue dressing gown and clutching his knees to his chest in his ever famous leather chair, half listening to the voice on the other line as his eyes wandered aimlessly about the flat.

"Oh, hello Detective Inspector. Got something for me?"

John set down his novel to listen in on the conversation. There was no point in concealing his eavesdropping, Sherlock wouldn't and couldn't be fooled. He rested head on his fist and watched with interest as Sherlock's expression shifted from bored to businesslike, and then slowly to thrilled; whatever Lestrade had for them tonight, it had to be good.

This had been one of the first evenings in months that Sherlock had been perfectly happy without a case. They'd be relaxing with their teas and the atmosphere had been terribly serene; John couldn't say it had been all that favourable. John's eyes lit up at the pending excitement.

"_Well well, that's _new. Brilliant. Will you send a car or shall I order a cab?"

"….."

"Right. We'll be on our way. I trust Anderson will have gone home when we arrive."

Sherlock hung up his mobile with a sharp click and promptly glanced up at John, plenty keen for details.

"John. Car's on its way. Get your coat. We've got a good one." Sherlock stood up abruptly and ripped his dressing gown off, tossing it on the sofa. He tugged at his t-shirt as he began to jog up the stairs, leaving John utterly bewildered but compliant all the same as he took one last sip of his tea and made toward his shoes at the front door.

"So Sherlock? What exactly are we investigating?" John shouted up at his eager and overly excited flatmate thrashing around for an acceptable outfit on the floor above him.

Sherlock's voice echoed clearly down the staircase, effortlessly velvety even its owner's thrill.

"QUADRUPLE MURDER. WHAT A TREAT, EH? FOUR BODIES WERE FOUND SCATTERED ABOUT FAMOUNS LONDON LANDMARKS EARLIER THIS EVENING, MURDERS AND MOST LIKELY LINKED-I HAVEN'T MUCH DETAIL ON THE SITUATION YET BUT WE'RE GOING TO MEET LESTRADE AT THE CRIME SCENE OF THE FOURTH BODY, IT'S CONDITIONS ARE MOST PECULIAR. IT'S AT PICCADILLY."

Four murders in one night. No wonder Sherlock was so spectacularly excited. John considered the thought that "peculiar" most likely meant extremely gruesome, and sighed.

He knew that the insensitivity and enthusiasm that Sherlock held for his job was no doubt needed, but if he hadn't known the man so well, he'd have considered the excitement absolutely ghastly and completely unrespectable. What had desensitised Sherlock to handle such a terrifying line of work without so much as a shudder at a blatant corpse?

There was so much that John didn't know. When a serious conversation came about the two of them it was most often related to work. John had never really taken the time to ask Sherlock about his family or his childhood or any aspect concerning his life before Stamford had introduced the two of them at the lab. Had it been unhappy? Had Sherlock ever had any friends besides John himself? Where had he even come from?

To devote your entire life to your own concept of justice at the degree that Sherlock had done was an honourable, yet difficult and rather strange concept to grasp. Could he have read a few too many Victorian detective stories as a child, or was it something more than that?

John had a stabbing feeling that Sherlock was concealing something very frightening about his past.


End file.
